“Quite a clever person, this young author friend of yours seems to be, Caroline,” she observed. “Almost brilliant, really.”
“He isn’t a friend of mine, exactly,” replied the girl. “He and Captain Warren are friendly, and father used to know and like him, as I have told you. The novel is great fun, though! The people in it are coming to seem almost real to me.”
“I daresay! I was a great reader myself once, before my health—my heart, you know—began to trouble me. The doctors now forbid my reading anything the least bit exciting. Has this—er—Mr. Pearson means?”
“I know very little of him, personally, but I think not. He used to be connected with the Planet, and wrote things about Wall Street. That was how father came to know him.”
“Live in an attic, does he?” inquired Malcolm. “That’s what all authors do, isn’t it? Put up in attics and sleep on pallets—whatever they are—and eat crusts, don’t they? Jolly life—if you like it! I prefer bucking wheat corners, myself.”
Mrs. Dunn laughed, and Caroline joined her, though not as heartily.
“How ridiculous you are, Malcolm!” exclaimed his mother. “Mr. Pearson isn’t that kind of an author, I’m sure. But where does he live, Caroline?”
“Somewhere on West 18th Street, I believe. He has rooms there, I think.”
“Oh! Really? And how is this wonderful novel of his progressing? When does he expect to favor us with it?”
“I don’t know. But it is progressing very well at present. He has written three chapters since last Wednesday. He was reading them to us when you came.”